


So Glad We Made It, Time Will Never Change It

by Merixcil



Series: Advent Fics 2019 [1]
Category: Hustlers (2019)
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26375650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merixcil/pseuds/Merixcil
Summary: Destiny is all settle down, but something's still missing from her happily ever after
Relationships: Destiny (Hustlers) & Ramona Vega
Series: Advent Fics 2019 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1916806
Kudos: 3





	So Glad We Made It, Time Will Never Change It

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt taken from: [Goodbye by The Spice Girls](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eegDtyrSUZw)  
> 

Christmas on the inside was a nightmare, which should have made every Christmas for ever after she was released feel like sweet relief to Destiny, and yet it was hard to shake the oppressive drudgery of the holidays. Maybe growing up means growing out of some things, maybe she just got one really good Christmas where she got everything she wanted and now forever after she’s left with a half baked replacement for the real thing. She’ll never know, but buying presents on a budget isn’t half as much fun as knowing that you’ve picked out the undisputed perfect gift. 

“Mom, I got it!” Lily bats destiny’s hand away. Since going off to college two State’s away, she’s started to take ownership of her own recollections of childhood Christmases, all of which seem to be completely at odds with what Destiny remembers as being part of the parcel of their family Christmases. She insists that it was always this way, the kids putting up the decorations and the parents producing all the food on the big day. As far as Destiny can recall, when Lily was young, the decorations were done slapdash by Grammy and as much of the food as possible was ordered in.

The big upside of living anywhere near New York is that you can always order in. 

But it’s nice, to have her home and to have her present. Destiny falls back to the kitchen, where she’s trying out making gingerbread for the third time this week. The first batch she put salt in instead of sugar, and the second batch burned, but she’s hoping that the third time’s the charm. The side is still dusted heavily with flour from where she rolled out the dough, shaping it and flattening it with almost maddening attention to detail, unable to let the cookies come out lumpy or uneven. Before reaching for the oven gloves to check on her little gingerbread children, she runs a finger through the white powder and is immediately hit by a rush of nostalgia so strong that she swears she can smell the sour tang of overheated ketamine, of Ramona’s essential oil diffuser in the next room. 

It’s over in an instant, but Destiny leans heavily on the counter in the aftermath, just to be sure. There’s Christmas music playing over Lily’s portable speaker, the gingerbread cookies smell absolutely perfect. Destiny has friends who will never know everything about her because they’ve never had to learn to judge a book by it’s cover. This is nice, this is normal. 

And yet, it’s incomplete. It’s been years, and Destiny can still see where all the people who aren’t here should fit into this picture. She’s tried to be friends with Mercedes and Annabelle but they don’t want to hear it, and she’ll miss her grandmother forever but the space she’s left in her wake is an act of mourning. But Ramona?

Ramona would be sat up on the counter, complaining that her exceedingly expensive and unrealistically high heels were killing her feet, even if all she’d done in them was to walk from the car to the front door. She’d laugh at herself, stuff far too many presents under the tree, help herself to half a bottle of wine before Destiny could blink. 

“I love you, baby girl. I love you, but I’m not ready to go there again.” 

Ramona had said so many things in the one phonecall she and Destiny have managed to get through since they both got out. All of them awful, all of them justified, but that had been the worst. Not ready. Destiny wasn’t ready either, but she had wanted to be so badly she was prepared to fake it till she made it. They could have had something, even if it wasn’t what they had before. 

They will never quite have what they had before, but Ramona wants back the closest thing to. So Destiny had demurred and hung up and set that part of her life aside for three full years. 

She’s ready now. She’s so fucking ready. 

The gingerbread has just started to colour round the edges, which looks somewhat less fetching than they do in the fancy bakeries downtown, but at least Destiny can be sure that they’re sturdy. She sets them on top of the oven, then gets to work transferring them to a cooling rack, one by one, with the aid of a spatula. 

“Smells good!” Lilly shouts through from the living room. 

Destiny smiles after her. “You gonna be alright for an hour or so, honey?”

“Sure. Why?”

“I got a call I need to make.”

Ramona could have changed her number a thousand times, but she won’t have done. When push comes to shove, she’d never go where Destiny couldn’t follow. 

The number rings, and rings, and just before it rings out the dial tone cuts off with a surprised laugh, full of warmth, full of time, ageing well through the years. “Hey baby.”

“Hey.” Destiny breathes. “Is now a good time?”

“Perfect.” Ramona replies, her smile audible. “How have you been?” 

All the better for hearing her voice. Destiny starts to speak, then she starts to talk, and the years melt away between them in a matter of minutes. 

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally posted as part of a multi chaptered 'advent fics' fic that I'm trying to split up. If you think you've read it before, you probably have
> 
> Comments on the previous posting of this fic (just ask if you want me to remove yours) include:
> 
> >wallscollide: Nice job.  
> >>Merixcil: Thank you!


End file.
